


Safe Word

by thewriterpoe



Category: SHINee
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Humiliation, Spanking, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterpoe/pseuds/thewriterpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But even as I told him that I had no interest in exploring any hidden desire to be dominated, I wondered why every time he wore all black; eyeliner and slicked his hair back, I visualized myself kneeling between his legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Word

**Author's Note:**

> Because the 'Odd Eye' special stage still got me feeling some type of way

I signed the contract after some contemplation. I reminded Key of the purpose of our arrangement – research for my graduate thesis. He smiled knowingly across the table from me; seated sideways, his long legs crossed at the knee, and his head tilted in my direction. “The implications of which,” I insist, “would be that I may not be as pliant as you are accustomed to.” I told him that I had no interest in exploring any hidden desire to be dominated even as I wondered why every time he wore all black; eyeliner and slicked his hair back, I visualized myself kneeling between his legs.

He smiled slowly, giving the impression of the Cheshire Cat. “Just be sure to use the safe word when it becomes too much,” he drawled.

The contract, for my benefit, was an articulation of my limits: no anal, no defection, no urination, no cutting, no fisting. For his benefit, it was protection from liability: if I displeased him, he could punish me. Satisfied with the agreement, he folded the document in thirds and slid it into the breast pocket of his designer jacket. Unfolding his legs and drawing his five foot eleven frame to full height, he led me to the ‘play room’, halting my hasty entrance with a long arm across the door frame.

“Once you step into the room,” he said solemnly, “'your ‘research’ will commence.”

I looked up at him but not in his eye – I could not bring myself to trust that piercing blue even though they were contacts and the left side had an eye patch. I nodded, throat dry with anticipation. He withdrew his arm.

The room was not as I imagined; quiet ordinary, not the medieval torture chamber I had supposed. In the middle of room was queen sized bed, draped in maroon sheets. An oak wardrobe flanked a dresser of the same collection. The overall effect of the scene lulled me to thinking that we would just be fucking. _Just?_ I mused at my apparent nonchalance of sleeping with a stranger. As though to dissuade the thought, the smirk dancing on Key’s thin lips promised that it would not just be fucking. It was unnerving. Even though I was sure he could not read minds I always found him lurking in the recesses of my thoughts.  I would have to be more guarded in his presence. His stare was too penetrating.

He followed closely behind me, his breath shadowing mine. He brought my attention to a hook in the ceiling above the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. I had noticed it in my first sweep of the room – for potted plants or mosquito nets.  When I looked directly up at it, he stepped deliberately into my personal space. My retreat was hindered by the bench digging into the flesh of my calves. He began explaining what was going to happen on that little piece of machinery: I would be strung up by my wrists and stripped naked. He would observe every inch of my body: my lopsided breasts, my flabby belly, my stretch marks, my thighs dimpled with cellulite. He expected my breath to hitch and it did. He expected my eyes to expand and they did. For the first time my mask of nonchalance slipped. He cocked his head to the side and drank deeply the range of emotions dressing my face. I settled on outrage. A smile crept onto his face. It was a miserly thing that sent shivers down my spine. “Bet you wished you used your gym membership,” he quipped.

And so began my research – with humiliation.

I obediently stripped down to my underwear, though hesitantly. He sniggered when I stepped forward to receive my binds. I was still under the impression that I could rise above it all, wearing resistance like a badge, but he predicted a swift descent to despair where pretentious sneers gave way to whimpering. He pulled me up on the bench to secure the rope to the hook. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my breath short and shallow; confidence leaving with every exhale.

The rope had enough slack to allow a comfortable standing position and keep my arms somewhat lax. As he came down from the bench, his eye inspected every curve, every rise, every crevice of his canvas: my threaded brows arched majestically on a high forehead; my eyes almond shaped, my pupils muddy, and my lashes inconsequential. My nose was un-heroic with a school of light freckles gathered on the bridge but my lips burgeoned with the promise of fullness. He noted with pleasant surprise that my breasts were not, after all, lopsided and my belly was distended not flabby. He commented that my coloring illustrated an art lesson in light and shadows; with my skin populated with fine, dusty hair performing waves whenever his breath brushed over them. He counted seven beauty spots: at the right temple, the left corner of my upper lip, the left collar bone, peeking from under my right breast, the right side of my pelvic bone, my left buttock, and behind my right knee. He counted two tattoos: a dove on my left shoulder and a short, archaic script on my forearm just below the elbow.        

Along with his eyes, his nose made thorough work of the investigation.  And when his eyes fell on the intricate design of my panties, he smiled carnivorously. “You’re wet,” he said. He took a long drag of my most intimate scent and turned his face away, hiding the expression upon it. I was humiliated.  It would have been better if he used his hands. I would soon get my wish.

He took off his clothes, amused by my attempt to avoid the sight of his nakedness. Then to my utter dismay, he grabbed his penis and started caressing along the shaft. It was fat and large; my pelvic muscles involuntarily contracting in anticipation of its entry. I twisted this way and that, taunted by his laughter. It finally occurred to me to shut my eyes, and I did but I could not shut my ears to the simulated moans. Quickly, I tried to fill my mind with something, anything to drown out the sloppy wet noises. Inexplicably, I wondered what would happen if I farted. The ridiculous thought burst out of my mouth in a short laugh. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried.  My eyes flew open, dilated and contrite. I opened my mouth to explain but the fire darting from his eye quelled the sound. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid of him as much as I was shocked by what I had done. And while I was busy reprimanding my tactless self, he calmly walked to the wardrobe and retrieved a three prongs leather whip.

Only people who have been beaten a good while could resist; their indifference to the sting of the whip reading like defiance. I had only been slapped once by my mother. And while I remembered the indignation the act had caused, I remembered none of the pain. And even if I did, it could not possibly compare to the rending agony being lavished on my back. My apologies cut across the room like a badly handled sword. There was no count made on the number of lashes I received but he stopped when I felt a slither of skin break. The blood trickled from the blade of my shoulder to the small of my back, collecting there till the overspill disappeared between the crack of my buttocks.

I continued apologizing, my cries simmering down to whimpers. When he returned to the room with a first aid kit, I was still apologizing. He tended to the small wound silently; his face passive, his eye expressionless. Instruments of pain now instruments of relief; his fingers gently rubbed ointment on my injured skin. My wrists were bloodied from my vigorous attempts to escape the whip. Without un-restraining me, he cleaned those wounds. Face to face, he avoided my bloated eyes even as he tenderly wiped my tear-soaked face. He was so close, his breath hot on my skin. His arm snaked around my waist and with deft fingers released my breasts from my bra. The heaving of my chest accelerated at the realization that there would be no intermission. I pleaded for a remittance but it went unheeded as he lifted the underwire over my head and lowered my panties to my ankles. He warned me not to impede his exploration lest I receive another whipping. It took a while but I managed to come close to something resembling calm.

The investigation continued. This time with his hands and to stop my squirming he secured my legs as well for a standing spread eagle. Standing behind me, four inches taller, he watched our reflection from the full length mirror on the door. Pressing his hard-on between my butt cheeks and his head to my tousled mane, he raised his hands to the level of my chest.

“Your breasts are bigger than my eyes had led me to believe,” he whispered as they spilled over his grasp, my nipples spiking his palms. Leaving his left hand plucking at my left nipple, he caressed the length of my torso causing the dusty hair of my body to stand at attention. He walked his fingers down my bunny trail into the bushy landscape of dips and mounds. Like the black on my head, the hair of my bush was soft as if conditioned.

“See how your body responds to my fondling,” he said, referring to the arch in my back, my whole body participating in the taxing work of breathing. “Just like a slut.” While his index finger coaxed my clitoris, his middle finger raced towards, and fell into, the dark hole of wonderland. It emerged wet and pungent, sliding over my hardened clitoris. Back and forth, in and out; this movement caused exquisite shudders to roll over my body in unrelenting waves.

I twisted my eye lids shut, refusing to accept that I might be enjoying this. _It is but an automated biological response to stimulus_ , I told myself, _a kin to pupil dilation to the stimulus of light or buccal salivation to the stimulus of food_. If so, what, then, was the biological explanation for my breath hitching when he called me a slut?

“Moan,” he commanded.

I refused. Instead I screamed; a biological response to the acute pain at my nipple.

“You will moan for me,” he twisted maliciously.

I rolled my mind’s eye; my mind’s voice emphatically saying I would not. But in the end I did: He knelt before me, his head at the crest of my sex. This distressed me greatly and I demanded use of the toilet. The request was denied. I warned him of my desperation but the look he gave me dared me to engage in that humiliation.  He parted my pubic hair as though making way through dense bush. The scent that was expelled was unlike the honey-hemp of my hair or the Shea butter of my skin. Finally at the heart of that fleshy forest, he licked his lips. I had never been kissed down there and while I cringed at the thought my other mouth, in anticipation of that intimacy, purred open. His lips pressed against those lips, the tip of his tongue brushing lightly against my swollen clitoris.

“Fu-uck!” A violet shudder leapt from my depths, speeding along my spine and escaping in a guttural moan. He stopped, having gotten the moan he wanted but my body, orbiting in his direction, pleaded for more.

*

It had been ten minutes since Key pulled me down from the hook, handcuffed, blindfolded and left me kneeling in the middle of the hardwood floor; simmering in the not knowing. I knew because I counted the ticks of the clock. He wasn’t making a sound and it was hard work trying not to let my imagination run away. What the actual fuck was I thinking agreeing to this? What if he had a camera pointed at me? What if he invited other people in the room? I hadn’t put that down as a prohibition but I definitely didn’t want anyone seeing me like this. My anxieties were cut short when I felt his warm breathe on my face.

“Open your mouth.” I hadn’t heard him pad over to me. “…suck.”

I whimpered but obeyed all the same, tasting the rubber of the condom, swallowing his cock. He exhaled loudly at the warmth of my mouth, his hands reaching to guide my head’s movement as he fucked into my mouth. This was what I wanted – to be on my knees before him, looking up at him as he looks down at me with his one blue eye but fuck all if I wasn’t blindfolded.

“Such a good girl; taking all of me in. I bet you like to swallow too. Do you like to swallow? Answer me,” he grabbed me by my hair and pulled me off him, smirking at the line of spittle hanging down the side of my mouth.

The strain on my neck was uncomfortable but I managed to tell him that I liked to swallow.

His grin widened. “Such a whore.”

I snarled at him even as my clit tingled at the word. I both hated and loved the degradation – hated because it was meant as an insult, loved because it gave license to my kinky inclinations.

“What was that?” he asked, a fierce glint in his eye. “Did you just snarl at me?”

I quickly arranged my face to placate him but it was too late. He forced me on my hands and knees, trapping me with his strong thighs as he lifted my ass high in the air. He struck my left ass cheek – hard. I had not been prepared for it and shot forward from the force. He landed another blow and this time I was braced for it and so didn’t rock too far forward. Between each blow, while soothing the sting of his palm print on my ass, he fingered me intensely. By the sixth spank, I was deciding if the sting on my back side could be compensated by the blissful friction between my legs. I was crying, sometimes in pain, sometimes in pleasure. By the eleventh spank, I decided it could not. It was just too painful and I stop him to stop. He didn’t.

“I’m not going to stop unless you say the safe word,” he growled. I noticed that his breathing was slow and labored, like he was trying to stay under control. He hit me two times more and with tears stinging my eyes, I finally sobbed out the safe word. He stopped immediately, catching me as I fell forward onto my belly. I was full on crying when he gathered me into his sinewy arms, whispering ‘baby’ lovingly in my ear. I received it begrudgingly.  

I must have fallen asleep because I was awoken to the sound of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor. Something of anxiety weighed heavily in my abdomen when I found that I could not move – stretched out with my hands and feet bound. I was also blindfolded and thrashed about uselessly in effort to see where he was. I hated these silences. They felt like absences even though I knew he was there, somewhere in the room, watching me. It was strange to me that I found his gaze more penetrating than his fingers; that it burned more than the aches on my body. Stranger still was the sensation gathering between my thighs. I tried to comfort myself by telling myself that it could only be him, that only Key could illicit such conflicting feelings within me but I was still distressed by the revelation that my body liked being his submissive, that _I_ liked being his submissive.

“I’m here,” Key’s disembodied voice spoke. I turned to my left, in the direction of his voice. He didn’t sound cold or distant anymore. Maybe I was imagining it but he sounded sad.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, voice cracking.

“Nothing. Your body is too weak. I don’t want to use you to the point of breaking. This is just research, after all.” his voice drifted off to the far end of the room.

“So, you’re not going to fuck me?”

For some reason this made him laugh.

Any pride I had left was completely shattered. He put me through all that and he wasn’t going to fuck me. I was angry. Angrier than I felt when he turned his face away from my scent, angrier than when my best friend showed my underwear to the entire ten grade class, angrier than I’ve ever felt before.

“S&M is about power, not fucking,” he said, his voice now on my right side. “If you want me to fuck you, you’ll have to beg.”

I was not going to beg. At least in the beginning I wasn’t going to beg but that silence like absence got to me. “Fuck me. Please.”

To this day, I’ll swear I heard him smile.

 


End file.
